


Followed Next With a Check and a Note (No Love, Just Sex)

by orphan_account



Series: Let's Talk About Sex [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Lots of Sex, M/M, Multi, pornstar AU, with feelings later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek strolls into his latest “gig” ready to bring the house down—what he doesn’t expect is, well, <i>Stiles</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Followed Next With a Check and a Note (No Love, Just Sex)

**Author's Note:**

> This might end up being a rambling author’s note, but you’ll deal with it because this is almost eight pages worth of porn.
> 
> Anyways, one, this took my almost 6 hours because I’m so slow, omg.
> 
> Second, this was inspired by watching too much Jake Bass porn, and I have a serious obsession with how he bites what is in front of him when he’s getting fucked. Like. Holy jesus fucking christ.
> 
> Third: this is definitely going to be expanded on. There might even be feelings at some point, imagine that! (Also, you guys are gonna want to know what Stiles’ tattoo is, huh? ;D)

Derek sips his drink slowly, savoring it like he savors the view. The lobby is twelve floors up, with another six floors until the actual roof of the building; the room is grand, full of plush couches and catty people, drinks and real plants. The light streaming in is warm, and pricks up hairs on Derek's skin. It's probably the most pompous establishment he's ever been to, and that's not even counting the fact that the eleven floors below them function as a publishing company.

He snickers into his glass, garnering the looks of a few other actors— _actors_ , they call themselves, like it's something prestigious, something _noteworthy_ that they can deep throat cock or take a whole fist in their ass like a _man—_ but he ignores the stares. He's here because he was asked to be, and because the paycheck will be fat. He's not here because of convoluted dreams of making it big in stardom, he's not here because he wants to be a Scream Queen. He's here for the money, that's it, that's all.

“Derek H.?”

He stands and tosses the tacky plastic martini cup in the trash on his way to the front desk. The woman smiles at him, bright and definitely a little drunk.

“Just head down that hall and show your card to the big scary man at the door. They'll run you through all the rules, guidelines, what they might want you to do. Then you'll get a chance to meet the man you're working with, and it's all uphill from there.”

Derek nods, and walks in the direction she points him.

Sure enough, after he's taken four sharp right turns and two lefts, he almost slams into the chest of a large, bulky guard. Derek raises the identification card that hangs around his neck, and waits impatiently to be let into the room. The man nods and steps aside, knocking his elbow against the door so that it swings open.

Derek strolls in, walks with a smirk and a little bounce in his step—because, even though he's simply here for the cash, it isn't as if he _dislikes_ sex. He loves it, craves it, he's _good_ at it. And he walks into that room with the premonition that he's going to _blow_ his partner's _mind_.

“You must be Derek.” A man with brown hair, highlighted with blonde, comes up to him and claps a hand on his shoulder. “I'm Mr. Whittemore.”

Derek nods. The kid looks young, younger than _Derek_. And that's a bit of a turn off.

“I'm half the man who runs this company,” Mr. Whittemore goes on to explain, ignoring Derek's sudden and internal crisis. “So, if you'll just get comfortable on that couch over there, we'll run you through safewords and your partner's do's and don'ts; then we'll ask you some questions, for the intro. People love seeing guys like you on the casting couch, you know?”

Derek nods, stiff, and moves towards the obnoxiously bright red couch. He sits, and tugs off his tank top, the room suddenly becoming stifling and hot. Mr. Whittemore grins, though, so it's a good move. Derek sinks into the couch; it's as plush and soft as the ones in the lobby, which figures.

“So,” another man comes out, with a strong jaw line, taller and more muscled than Mr. Whittemore, but with a kinder face. “I'm Danny, and this is Jackson. He probably made it sound like you have to call him Mr. Whittemore, but you don't.” Danny grins at Derek, and just behind him Jackson looks even young with a pout on his face. “We run this company together, and we want to make sure that you have as good a time as possible here.” Danny raises an eyebrow at Derek, who just wordlessly asks him to continue. “You'll be working with one of our favorites today. I think you'll be pleased, he's 'your type,' as you asked for on your application.” Danny scans over the clipboard in his hand. “You both agree on no watersports or scat, no bloodplay, minimal pain play, though he said that biting was definitely fine.” Danny grins again, though it's more private, to himself.

“Do I get his name?”

“He prefers to do a big introduction when he arrives, trust me.” Danny assures, still looking over the sheets in hand. “Do you prefer topping? He has no preference, so this one is on you.”

“I'd like to, yes.” Derek says, tone level and blank.

Danny eyes him. “I hope you've got a great dick, because your personality sort of sucks.”

Derek grits his teeth. “Sorry,” he grinds out, not very sorry at all.

“Yeah, I'm sure you are.” Danny rolls his eyes, and pulls a pen from his pocket to scribble something down. “The safeword will be, at his request, papaya.”

Derek blinks and opens his mouth before closing it with a snap.

“I know.” Danny answers, nodding. “Well, he should be here any second, so we'll take this time to ask you questions, ask you to show us some of your goods, that cliché crap.” Danny grins, and nods to Jackson, then leaves.

Jackson whistles, and a seedy camera man waddles over, taking hold of the only camera on a tripod. “Alright, so, is this your first time?”

“Ever?” Derek scoffs, “no.”

“Just with us.” Jackson grins.

“Just with this company, yeah.”

“Alright, alright.” Jackson seems to think. “I see you've already got your shirt off.”

Derek starts, but forces himself to relax. “Yeah, it's hot in here.”

Jackson smirks. “Certainly is.” He taps his chin from behind the camera man. “Are you excited for today?”

Derek finally matches the expression. “Yeah.”

“Are you gonna blow his fucking _mind_?” Jackson's expression turns from sleezy to taunting, teasing—as if he knows something Derek doesn't.

“I certainly hope he does, because if he doesn't then I'm taking his paycheck too.” A voice, unfamiliar and new to the scenario, announces. Derek's attention snaps to the man— _kid_ , his mind tells him, all lithe and lean strength, wiry muscles with a barely grown up baby face. Derek's attention snaps to the fact that this _kid_ is stark naked, and simply waltzes into the frame, flopping onto the couch beside Derek with his legs thrown over Derek's lap.

Jackson looks caught between annoyance and deviousness. “Why don't you guys tell us your names?”

The kid grins and sits up. “I'm Stiles,” he shoots a wink, a natural good natured wink at the camera.

“I'm Derek.” He says, forcing the tension out of his muscles.

“So Stiles,” Jackson continues, “you're a regular here, aren't you?”

Stiles laughs, and the sultry grin he gives the camera startles Derek. “I'm the _best_ , here.”

Jackson snickers but it barely sounds in the room. “Intimidating yet, Derek?”

“A bit.” He answers. Stiles beside him laughs, shakes, vibrating against his side.

“So, why don't you two just get acquainted. Don't be afraid to try things, touch each other, talk. Stiles really likes talking.”

“Fuck off,” Stiles shoots back, but he turns to Derek with a smile. “Hi.”

Derek nods.

“Not a big talker?”

Derek falters, and curses himself for it. “I've never done this before.” Stiles' eyes widen and Derek hastens to correct himself. “The introduction, the talking. I've done _this_ before but not.” Derek motions between them, then catches himself staring at Stiles' cock.

Stiles laughs softly. “S'totally okay. You're just new to the big leagues, I get it. It's kind of freaky.” Stiles throws an arm along the back of the couch. “I remember when I first started here, I just kind of assumed we were supposed to get straight to business.”

“To be fair,” Danny interrupts as he just strolls through the scene—behind the camera, out of frame, “you took Isaac and Boyd like a champ.”

Stiles flushes an appreciative pink, then looks at Derek again. “I did.” He agrees before laughing. “But yeah, no, I get it. It's weird to think of _this_ as being some big production, more than just a guy holding a camera while he gets head, y'know?”

Derek nods.

Stiles reaches out and scrubs his knuckles along Derek's stubble. “Did you keep the stubble just for me?” Derek isn't given a chance to answer before Stiles crowds his space with a smirk. Derek simply presses back against the pressure on his lips, licks against the seam of Stiles' lips and swallows the sharp inhale.

He feels Stiles' hands come to clench at his shoulders, he hears Stiles' small breathy gasps each time Derek slides his tongue along a particularly sensitive part of Stiles' mouth. As Stiles clambers into his lap with a sort of awkward grace, Derek can faintly hear the cameras moving, scrambling to capture the best angle. Stiles' cock, half hard, brushes over the light dusting of hair on Derek's stomach, and Stiles lets out another gasp.

“Mm,” he moans against Derek's lips, eyes low lidded but alight with _sex_. Stiles tugs his lower lip between his teeth, and gives a coy look to Derek; he twists his body and rubs himself against Derek, fingernails digging crescents into Derek's arm.

It's overwhelming.

“You're gonna fuck me, right?” Stiles asks, harshly loud in the silence of the room. Derek growls and nods, leaning forward to lick and bite at the exposed neck before him. Stiles tenses briefly, before letting out the tension in a drawn out shiver and moan. “Harder.” Derek pauses, and Stiles says it again, _“harder,”_ so Derek obeys.

He opens his mouth and closes it over the junction of Stiles' neck and shoulder. He takes the slight give of skin between his teeth, and digs in, pushing welts into the skin and turning it a violent red. Blood rushes to the surface but he doesn't break the skin—instead, Derek's mouth fills with the taste of Stiles' and the warmth of abused skin.

Derek pulls back when he feels fingernails biting into his scalp.

“Fuck me why did you _stop_?” Stiles barks at him, mouth already red from biting at his lips. He turns to look at his neck and shoulder, and breaks into a grin. “That's gonna leave the best bruise _ever_.”

Derek snorts, derisively in amusement. Stiles grins back and sinks, lowers himself into Derek's lap so that his free cock can rub against Derek's own, still confined in jeans. Stiles' hands drop and fiddle expertly with the belt. He all but rips it from the loops of Derek's jeans, and it snaps against his arm as he does it. Stiles grins and tosses it somewhere behind him.

Stiles leans in, and speaks only to Derek. There's no way that the cameras or the mics could catch his whisper, hot and rushed against Derek's ear. “When they gave me your information, when I saw what you _had_ ,” Stiles laughs breathless against him, “my mouth started to water.”

Derek groans, hips bucking, desperate for contact. Stiles grins and leans back. He smirks at Derek, and vaguely in the back of his mind, Derek remembers walking in here with _confidence_ , with _cockiness_. Now, that all seems like a far off dream as Stiles slides from his lip, slinking to the floor like a fucking snake, grinning like a cat, tugging Derek's jeans with him as he goes.

Derek helps to kick off his jeans; he's struck by the realization that Stiles stripping off his socks is _hot_ , hot as everything else they're doing. The realization takes a back seat, though, as Stiles' gaze falls to Derek's cock, as Stiles licks his lips greedily. He leans forward, hands heavy on Derek's thighs, as he takes in Derek's cock. It's thick, hard, and leans slightly to Derek's left.

Derek starts when he notices Stiles' been mumbling against the hot skin of his cock. “I've always thought this was hot,” his fingertips pull at the foreskin, he slides it down from the head of Derek's cock and his tongue slips out to lick at the precome gathering. He grins up at Derek and lets the skin go. “Way hotter,” he says again, before taking Derek into his mouth, half way down and swallowing around what he can fit in his mouth.

Derek's hips stutter, and Stiles chokes before pulling off. But there isn't a trace of insecurity, not a trace of surprise of uncertainty in Stiles' face. He barely takes in a gasping inhale before swallowing Derek down again. Derek lets his head drop back along the couch, and runs his fingers through Stiles' scalp, scraping the skin and wishing there was enough hair to grab onto.

Stiles bobs his head, raising it enough so that he can slide his tongue between foreskin and cock. He grins as nothing but his tongue teases and taunts at Derek, as he laves his way down to Derek's balls, lapping at his taint. Derek may not be one for bottoming, not all of the time, but when Stiles' tongue swipes across him, across his hole, he lets out a groan that speaks volume for how he really wouldn't _mind_ being fucked.

By Stiles.

Derek groans again and tries to push Stiles away. Stiles laughs and gives his cock a parting suck before standing again. “Too much?” He asks in a snarking voice.

“Too good.” Derek growls back.

Stiles smirks, “thanks,” he holds out a hand to Derek to help him stand. “There's a bed over here. They'll just do some choppy cut-and-edit shit.”

“Unless you make it interesting.” Jackson calls from out of frame. Derek smirks.

He grips Stiles' wrist and tugs him close, bringing their mouths hot together again. Stiles loops his arms around Derek's neck, allows Derek to lift him just enough to stumble into the next room. By the time they reach the edge of the bed, Stiles' toes are resting on the tops of Derek's feet, and he's grinning into his mouth.

“C'mon,” Stiles says to him, letting the words into Derek's mouth, “hurry up.” As they fall onto the bed together, Derek feels someone toss lube to him, though it smacks him in the arm instead of him catching it. He sits up and takes in Stiles beneath him, knees drawn up and feet planted firmly on the bed. He's grinning up at Derek with one hand around his own cock and the other hand's fingertips teasing at his lips. “C'mon,” he says again.

Derek holds himself up over Stiles by resting all his weight on one leg, on his elbow pressing into the sheets by Stiles' head. He drops a lube slick hand to between Stiles' thighs. He traces the feeling of inked skin with his thumb, and makes a note to get up close and personal with the tattoo. Stiles rolls his hips, urging Derek's slick hand closer, and Derek complies.

He slides two fingers in, slowly but thoroughly, pressing them as deep as he can. Stiles gasps and his whole back arches into the feeling. He turns and snakes a hand into Derek's hair; he moans loud and hard against the bed, and Derek watches the way his mouth seems to ache for something in it, something to bite or suck on. Stiles' tongue comes out of his mouth with each moan, flicking out to wet his lips or curl for something not there.

Stiles gets breathier and needier and dirtier with each finger Derek adds; at three fingers he's biting at the minimal inches of Derek's skin he can reach, sucking them into his mouth and coming closer to drawing blood than Derek would ever dare. At four, Stiles has his head thrown back, so far that his neck has to be cramping, and filth is just falling from his kiss-pink lips. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he gasps and arches at all the right times, and Derek has a brief moment of worry that he'll come like a fucking teenager if this carries on. “C'mon, _Derek_ ,” and Stiles rambles on something else, something that probably has the cameramen's cocks jumping.

But Derek's world narrows, decisively and suddenly, on Stiles saying his name like a _prayer_.

Derek expects a noise of surprise from Stiles when he pulls out his fingers, but all Stiles does is roll over, stretching his arms out in front of him like a cat, ass high in the air. He watches Derek over his shoulder, eyes blown wide, the edge of gold like a drug to Derek.

A condom hits him in the face, and he shoots a glare at Jackson. He rips it, and rolls it over his cock. Stiles wriggles, eager and teasing though coherency seems far out of his reach. Derek rests a hand on Stiles' lower back, guiding himself in with the other hand.

Stiles is moaning all over again, from the moment Derek has the head of his cock inside, right up until his balls slap against Stiles, until he's in as far as he can be. Stiles slides a hand down, gripping the sheets and rucking them up, until his fingers curl between his thighs: around his cock, to jerk and pull and slide as fast as he can. He stops, though, and simply holds him, and then starts again. Sometimes he'll let go entirely, he'll switch hands, all the while pressing back against Derek's thrusts.

Derek lets go of Stiles' hips to press his hands onto the bed, giving him harder and faster leverage. Stiles cries out, a slur of _“fuck fuck, Derek, fuck yeah,”_ mixed with Derek's own inane, lusting mumblings. Things like _“shit, Stiles, fuck, perfect, made for this,”_ as the need to come rises higher and stronger inside him, at the base of his spine and shivering through his every fiber of being.

Derek looks up, hips slowing to lazy thrusts, hard and deliberate, and watches Stiles bring the sheets into his mouth, tear at them with his teeth while his hips roll in tandem with Derek's. He watches Stiles lose his mind, hands scrambling at the bedding and failing to latch on, he watches Stiles moan around the fabric in his mouth, he watches Stiles throw his head back and his moans become sharp and short _“ah ah ah ah”_ 's as Derek thrusts fast and unrelenting.

Derek doesn't know how much time passes but it feels as though, in the blink of an eye, he's got Stiles on his back and Stiles' legs throw up over his shoulders and Stiles gasping out _“I'm gonna come, gonna come, oh shit.”_ Derek groans, unable to decide where to look: Stiles head, still turned to the side and tugging at the sheets, lips stretched from his teeth—Derek wants to lean forward and lick them, lick his gums and into the mouth and _take—_ or, he thinks, does he keep his eyes trained on Stiles hand jerking his cock, hard and fast, does he watch Stiles unravel himself, fraying at the seams?

Derek groans and channels his indecision into fucker Stiles harder, shoving him up up up the bed until Stiles hits his head against the headboard. Stiles groans and winces, but Derek has no time nor thought left to apologize. Not that Stiles seems to care, because he continues to stroke himself, biting at the back of his hand as Derek watches him become overwhelmed by the pleasure.

Derek chokes on his own moan when Stiles' back arches and he comes all over his stomach, spurting up to his chest and catching on a pert nipple—Derek chokes on air as his name falls from Stiles' mouth, loud and reverberating and heady. Derek keens, a reckless noise as he drops to his elbows again, stretching and bending Stiles so that he's practically in half, knees knocking his shoulders. Derek's thighs burn with exertion, but it propels him, compels him to chase that shiver of want racing from his tongue down his spine to his cock.

He bites into Stiles' neck when he comes; his hips piston unsteadily, starting and stopping, starting and stopping until the _schlick schlick schlick_ of lube and sweat between their bodies slows to nothing. Even after his hips have stopped, though, he continues to bite at Stiles' neck. Stiles sighs against his ear like it's the best thing in the world. Derek slips out, his cock flushed but flaccid. He grins down at Stiles who smirks back with tired eyes. There's a necklace of bite marks and hickeys, and if Derek looks at himself he'll see similar marks littering his body, arms especially.

Derek leans down, against his better instincts, and kisses Stiles, slow and leisurely. Stiles grins against his lips and returns the enthusiasm with a lax tongue and soft sighs.

In the distance, over the blood rushing in his ears, Derek hears Jackson call cut; he listens to the cameras shift and move, he listens to Jackson and Danny's hushed discussion. He just keeps kissing Stiles and as it goes on, their lips and tongue become less sexual and settle into blatant intimacy.

“Well.” Jackson announce, and suddenly he's standing right beside their bed. “That was pretty amazing for a first time together.”

They break apart with a smacking of lips, and Stiles grins up at Jackson. “Yeah,” he agrees, then looks to Derek as if for confirmation. He just grins back.

“So, Derek, how do you feel about a full contract?”

Derek looks up in surprise. “Seriously?”

Stiles laughs and combs his fingers through Derek's already mussed hair.

“Definitely,” Danny says as he appears just as suddenly beside Jackson. “You two have amazing chemistry. Granted, Stiles is like that with most everyone. But you two are something else.”

Stiles meets Derek's gaze.

“What would a full contract entail?” Derek asks as he sits up, ignoring the stick of his skin to Stiles.

Jackson motions to Danny, who has a clipboard again, and seems to be reading from a checklist. “You're ours, which means any changes to your appearance have to be approved by us. This includes piercings, tattoos, hair color, contacts, shaving, all of it.”

Derek blanches but Danny is unaffected.

“A considerably larger paycheck than what those small time companies and horny old men can offer you,” Danny says next, a pointed look. Stiles laughs and slips off the bed. Derek doesn't bother to resist watching him leave. Jackson coughs awkwardly when Derek has been staring too long.

“You and Stiles will work with only each other, unless you can agree on a third or fourth or whatever party to join you.”

Jackson intervenes, “we think you two are going to be a big hit. Other scenes with other actors might happen, but we get the feeling the two of you are going to be our very own Bradjelina.”

“I'm trying to wane him off trashy magazines, I'm so sorry.” Danny follows up smoothly, smirking.

Derek turns and sits, catching his pants when Stiles returns and throws them at him. Stiles has slipped on boxer briefs, tight and essentially useless. Danny waits until Derek at least has the pants on, though not buttoned, before speaking again.

“You're free to negotiate, you don't _have_ to be stuck with Stiles,”

Stiles makes an indignant face.

“But, like Jackson said, big future for you two.”

Derek looks at Stiles. Because he's about two point five seconds from saying yes and doing a victory dance. But this is as much Stiles' decision as it is Derek's.

Stiles grins, hands on his hips. “I'd like that.” He says, and it's like music to Derek's ears.

“I'm in.” He answers though he never breaks his gaze with Stiles.

Jackson ends up being the one to do a sort of victory dance, though it's kind of douchey and makes Danny slap him with the clipboard. “We have all your information, so we'll call you when it's time for the next filming.”

Stiles sits on the best as they leave. “Well, Derek, I think we have a bright and interesting partnership ahead of us.” He holds out a hand and Derek grips it with his less sticky hand. Stiles tugs him forward and kisses him again, biting at Derek's lips. “Next time, I'm on top.”


End file.
